Blood Lines

TWENTY-TWO

RAIN had settled over eastern Maryland and Virginia like a broody hen. The storm didn't bother with thunder or lightning; it squatted patiently over the land, incubating grass, trees, and traffic accidents.

Cullen made good time on I-81 and I-66 in spite of his sedate pace—he'd held it under ninety pretty much the whole way. Too many humans cluttered the interstates, and they did the damnedest things behind the wheel. But D.C.'s traffic was constipated, as usual; once he hit the Parkway, it was more like an impacted bowel. Nothing was moving.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, scowling at the cars ahead. He'd turned on the radio long enough to listen to the eye-in-the-sky traffic report; apparently some numbnuts had skidded his car across two lanes, causing a pileup.

Humans should not be allowed to drive when it rained.

He ought to be tired. He'd shorted himself on sleep for over a week now, and it was bound to catch up with him. But he was twitchy, wanting a run more than a rest—preferably four-footed. He'd been cooped up in a plane or a car for most of the past twenty-four hours.

"AK-47," Timms said suddenly. "Few bursts from that would make 'em move."

Cullen glanced at the man in the passenger seat, his lips quirking. Timms had drifted in and out of a narcotic doze for most of the trip, but whenever he hit more-or-less awake, his comments were unabashedly bloodthirsty. "You might inspire the drivers, but when you kill cars, they don't get out of your way."

"True." Timms sighed heavily. "Couldn't shoot it with this damned arm, anyway."

There was a rustling in the backseat. "Shoot what?" Cynna asked.

"Timms is indulging in wishful thinking." Cullen felt a disproportionate sense of relief. She'd conked out after eating half of a hamburger and slept the whole way. He'd kept the radio turned off so he could listen to her breathing and heart rate, but medical school was a long time ago, and he hadn't paid attention to the parts that didn't interest him… which included much of the actual medicine. He hadn't attended with the intention of healing the sick. Only one of the sick, and he'd failed dismally there.

So he hadn't been sure if he should wake her or let her sleep, and he wasn't used to uncertainty. Or worrying. It was all damned annoying.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten thirty. On the off chance we don't spend the night in this damned traffic jam, can I bunk at your place after we see what's up with Rule? Nokolai's house is running out of beds."

"Sorry. I don't have a place."

"You sleep in ditches?" The cars ahead finally eased forward, so Cullen did, too. Ten miles an hour was better than standing still.

"At a hotel. I'm on the go so much with my job—"

"You live in hotel rooms? All the time?"

"I had an apartment." She was defensive. "When it went condo I didn't want to buy, so I moved my junk into storage. I just haven't gotten around to finding another place, is all. Rent's crazy here."

"How long ago did your apartment go condo?"

"None of your business."

And he thought he lived a footloose life. She couldn't even commit to a rental contract. "I'd ask if your hotel room has a couch, but I don't trust me that much. I wouldn't stay on the couch." He sighed. "Maybe Rule has a sleeping bag."

"Rule's the one with demon stuff in him, right?" Timms said, frowning. "You sure you want to stay there? I don't have a spare room, but you could have the couch."

Amused, Cullen shot him a glance. "Thanks. I may take you up on that."

Cynna spoke. "Shouldn't we drop Timms off first?"

"He took one of his painkillers, which he seems to have a strong reaction to. He's flying. I don't think he'll mind waiting a little longer to go home." And he probably shouldn't be left alone until the medication wore off. He might shoot his neighbor's cat. Or his neighbor.

"But—"

"I'm okay," Timms said. "Uh… where are we going, again?"

Cullen explained one more time. You'd think the head injury victim would be the one with a short-term memory deficit, but Cynna remembered everything—including any number of questions she was forced to sit on with Timms around. She'd pointed that out during a brief period when Timms was asleep and she wasn't. She'd also pointed out that Rule wouldn't want to discuss clan stuff in front of Timms.

"I thought you felt responsible for him," he'd said. "What with him being wounded under your command."

That had pissed her off. He gave her points for knowing when he was dancing around the truth, but she jumped to the wrong conclusion. She thought he was using Timms to avoid her questions, but he didn't need the man around for that. He never answered questions he didn't want to.

It was five minutes after eleven when they finally parked on the street just down from the Nokolai house. Cullen helped his two wounded out of the car—at least, he tried to. Timms was wobbly, but not feeling any pain. Cynna insisted her nap in the car had done wonders for her headache.

"You think they're in bed?" she asked as they approached. "The porch light's off."

"Rule's bodyguards arrived. The ones outside won't want their night vision messed up."

"I don't see anyone."

"You wouldn't." Cullen had amused himself by using his other vision, so he knew his assumption was correct. The unmistakable aura of a lupus hovered faintly over the front seat of the two-year-old Mercury parked in front of the house.

He was surprised, though, at who opened the door. Surprised enough to stare.

The man facing him filled the doorway. His black hair was short and shot through with silver; his hands were the size of dinner plates. He had his mother's dark eyes and coppery skin, and he almost never left Clanhome.

"You coming in?" Benedict said.

"That's the idea." Cullen waved Cynna through. "Cynna Weaver, this is Rule's brother, Benedict. Rumor has it he does have a last name, but, like Madonna, he doesn't use it."

Rumor—or at least Rule—also claimed Benedict had a sense of humor, but Cullen had never seen evidence of it. He didn't tonight, either. "Come in, then. I don't want to leave the door open."

"She's a little slow tonight," Cullen said, using one hand to urge Cynna through the door. "It may be the depressed skull fracture. It may be your chest. Did you know that people in cities usually wear shirts?"

Benedict, of course, ignored the irrelevancies. It was as impossible to insult the man as it was to joke with him. He looked at Cynna. "Lily said the Leidolf Rhej performed a healing."

Cynna recovered from her startlement, which had probably been caused as much by what Benedict did wear as what he didn't. Benedict liked sharp objects. Twin knives were sheathed on his forearms, and a sword rode in its scabbard on his back. She shot Cullen an annoyed glance. "She did. I'm fine, aside from a bit of a headache."

Bit of a headache. Ha. "Who's watching over Isen?" he asked as Benedict secured the door.

"A number of people." Benedict turned to Timms. "I don't allow weapons in the Lu Nuncio's presence."

Cullen shook his head. "You won't part him from his gun, but I'll vouch for him." He looked at Timms. "No shooting my friend."

"That must be Timms," Rule said, entering the little hall from the rear. "I understand his arm was broken while fighting the demon-possessed. I'm not sure why…" He let that trail off, cocking an eyebrow at Cullen.

But it was Timms who answered. "Saved my life."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He did. Your friend." Timms nodded several times for empha-sif, "I tranked her. Made her mad. The other two froze. Woman's body, you know? Threw them for a second. Seaboard didn't freeze. Pulled her off when she got hold of me. You're Rule Turner?"

"I am." Rule looked fascinated.

"Got demon stuff in you. Not your fault, but… thought I'd better come along, keep an eye out."

"I see." Rule was amused but hid it well. He crossed to Cynna—not limping, Cullen noticed—and took her hands in his. "How are you, really?"

That intent, caring gaze had flustered women more confident than Cynna. She didn't quite stammer. "I'm okay. Really. My head hurts, but it's no biggie. But are you okay?"

He grimaced and dropped her hands. "Let's adjourn to the kitchen. Lily's there."

Benedict didn't like it. "He's got a weapon."

"Cullen will see to it he doesn't shoot me." Rule waved them on, waiting until Cullen passed him to murmur, "Collecting strays again?"

Cullen felt the tips of his ears heat, dammit. "I always say you can never have too many FBI agents around."

Rule chuckled. "I'm not keeping this one for you."

The way the house was laid out they had to go through the parlor and dining room to get to the kitchen; Rule was still grinning as they reached it.

Lily was pacing, her cell phone held to her ear. Her eyes flashed up. She grimaced. "I know, but… no, I didn't. I didn't say that. Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go."

She disconnected.

Rule cocked an eyebrow at her. She gave a tiny shake of her head, then said to the rest of them, "My sister. My older sister," she added with a grimace, as if that explained something.

"Problems?" Cynna said, pulling out one of the chairs at the big, round table.

"Family. Problems." Lily flipped her hand once. "Two sides of the same coin, aren't they?"

Cullen watched Cynna's face. Nothing showed, but he wondered what she was thinking. He'd never heard her mention any family and suspected she didn't have one. "Lily, this is Agent Timms. Timms, Lily hangs out on your side of reality most of the time—her aka is Agent Yu of MCD."

"We've spoken," Lily started to hold out her hand, then realized the cast was on his right arm. She settled for a nod and gave Cullen a questioning look.

"Cullen vouches for him," Rule said dryly. He moved to the coffeepot. "Anyone care for a cup?"

Timms was the only taker—seems he thought the pain meds had his mind a bit fuzzy.

"Oh." Lily reached for a folder on the table. "This is a copy of that report you wanted." She handed it to Cullen.

Cullen's hand closed tightly on it. He needed to read it right now, needed to find the one who'd tampered with his mind. Instinctively, he hid the strength of that need, saying the first thing that came to mind. "What's Benedict doing here?"

Rule handed Timms a mug. "Isen believes I'm in more danger than he is right now."

Benedict spoke. "He also believes you won't argue with me. Hard to get one of my people to guard Rule properly," he added to the rest of them. "They have a bad habit of obeying him."

"Not a flaw you're prone to," Cullen said. "Tends to run the other way with you." Lily hadn't said a word about what was in the report. Was it useless? Or did she not want to comment in front of Timms?

"I'm sorry you raced back this way," Rule said, apparently addressing the coffeepot as he poured his own coffee. "I told Lily there was no point."

Cullen spoke sharply. "Don't give her grief about this. Rule, I can see it now."

Rule's head jerked up. He scowled at Cullen.

"It's in your aura. The change is slight, small enough that I wouldn't notice if I didn't know you so well. But it's there."

"I don't want to be pushy," Cynna said, "but what are you talking about? Cullen said you were worse, Rule—that something went wacky with your memory. But even he couldn't see that."

Lily answered, her voice low. "The demon poison. It's metas-tasized, or something like that. I knew it the second I touched him."

"What?" Cynna demanded. "What did you feel?"

"It didn't stay in the wound. It's spread throughout his body."